


Blue-Eyed

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blue Eyes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, No Smut, Post-Coital Cuddling, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28941444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: The first thing he noticed about the bard, apart from how incessantly insistent he was about following Geralt absolutely everywhere, were his eyes.--Soft!Geralt hours where our Witcher doesn't know how to tell Jaskier his eyes are really pretty.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 343
Collections: MaMooRoo BIKM Bingo





	Blue-Eyed

It’s his job to be perceptive. Noticing the little things has saved his life on a number of occasions, too many to even count or remember. But that’s for work. When he’s on a hunt, it’s a matter of life or death to notice blood patterns in the grass, or the tracks of monsters that have escaped into the nearby forest, or even if what he’s hunting is actually what he’s meant to be hunting.

The first thing he noticed about the bard, apart from how incessantly insistent he was about following Geralt absolutely _everywhere_ , were his eyes. When you live as long as a Witcher has, countless sun-turns that tend to bleed into the next and all concept of time is thrown out the preverbal window, you begin to see the same eyes in different people. But Geralt can’t think of a time he saw eyes like Jaskier’s. They’re blue; and that’s doing them a disservice. If he was any good with words, like the bard, he would describe them as belonging to the sea, or how the sky looks in summer with clouds nowhere to be seen.

He finds himself looking at them, noticing little things with each passing day. When the summer light manages to catch them, Geralt spots silvers within Jaskier’s eyes that brighten them even more. They’re not of this world, his eyes. In a way where Geralt’s an unnatural, inciting fear and many don’t even want to look at his eyes for fear of seeing the golden irises or the cat-like slit, Jaskier’s earn their fair share of admirers. And Geralt has watched each and every one of them try and describe them. The poets that fall into Jaskier’s bed use whatever flowery and quaint language comes to mind. Ladies and countesses liken them to jewels.

And then there’s Geralt. He doesn’t have many words, or any silver coins or sapphires to liken Jaskier’s eyes to. But he likes looking at them.

The bard smiles, something that rounds his cheeks and makes the blue in his eyes glisten, even in the dimming light of the hearth nearby. Kaer Morhen winters are never pleasant. When the harsh winds tumble down the peaks and start to whip and lash at the crumbling walls of the keep, Geralt bundles his bard close and warm and protected against the worst howls of the wind.

Jaskier’s fingers dust along the ridge of his jaw, gently mapping out each line and stretch of skin he can find. In all the days travelled together and in the nights spent in each other’s beds, huddled close, Jaskier has spent his time chartering everything he could find on the Witcher. But he still likes to let his hands and fingers drift, with his lips sometimes following.

Geralt can’t take his eyes away from Jaskier’s. His pupils have swallowed some of the blue; he’s comfortable and soft and sated, almost on the cusp of sleep when it threatens to stalk out of the shadows of the room and lure them both under. But he tries to clamber awake, holding on to it with a fingertip grip. He just can’t part with Jaskier just yet.

The bard’s smile doesn’t lessen. “What’s up with you tonight, hmm?” he lulls, keeping his voice low, mindful of the quiet settled over the room. Kaer Morhen lures a gentler side out of him; one that doesn’t have the weight of the path and the Continent weighing on his shoulders. It’s Jaskier’s favourite side of him – one that only he’s allowed to see. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

Geralt hums. It comes from the core of his chest, rumbling and sated. “Am I not allowed to?”

“You’re allowed to,” Jaskier laughs breathlessly, “just, I don’t know, I want to know what’s going on in the head of yours, because I know something is. You want to say something.”

Geralt’s brows knit together in a small frown. “I don’t.”

Jaskier snorts. “You do. You get this look when you’re thinking about something, and then thinking about how you should say it. It’s cute.”

 _Witchers aren’t cute_. Witchers aren’t a lot of things that Jaskier calls him. Sweet, gentle, kind. He doesn’t know what kind of ale the bard was drinking the first time he called Geralt something soft, but he remembers it as if it were yesterday; the memory burned into his mind and repeating over and over again, alongside all of the other times Jaskier has gentled him and lulled sweet things to him.

Jaskier’s fingers drift down Geralt’s jaw, tracing the length of his neck and the point of his throat, watching it bob as the Witcher swallows. The bard is a mystery Geralt is still trying to work out. He says all of these sweet things, and touches him with such reverence, that Geralt struggles to follow.

He can understand sex, when the need for release starts gnawing at him and he tumbles into a bed whoever he can find – whoever can stand the idea of having him touch them. And then there’s Jaskier, quietly mapping Geralt out and taking his time. In the winter nights, where the dark stretches on for hours and they can take their time, Geralt’s breath has shuddered and stilled completely as Jaskier has set his fingers and hands and lips to him. Of the two of them, Jaskier is the most deadly. The things he can do with his body might just send Geralt into a cardiac arrest one day.

The intertwined smell the both of them still lingers in the air; Jaskier’s usual scent mixed with his bathing oils and the lotions he likes to use to keep his skin soft, curled alongside Geralt’s musk and the soaps Jaskier _insists_ on scrubbing him with in their baths. Through it all, there’s the telling acrid scent of sweat and sex still lingering underneath, something that would have Geralt’s interest stirring again if the bard hadn’t wrung him dry.

And he’s still not asleep. Geralt can feel it tugging at him, trying to lure him down and make him rest. He’s freshly washed and warm and sated, with his bard nearby. And yet he stays awake just to look at Jaskier and his eyes—

He blinks when the other man leans forward, luring him into a long and languid kiss. The kind of kiss Geralt can lose himself in, letting Jaskier’s lips catch his and the first swipe of his tongue sends sparks through him. He isn’t sure how long he’s lost to it. It could be seconds or hours, he really doesn’t know. Jaskier can make time blink by so easily.

When he parts them, the bard doesn’t wander too far away. Even with the hearth and the blankets over them, Jaskier still likes to be as close as he can be. Warm and bundled around each other. Not that he would ever want to be anywhere else.

Jaskier’s lip twitches back into a smile as he settles back on to his pillow, an arm folded underneath his head so that he can watch the Witcher. “What’re you thinkin’ about?” he murmurs. And behind the blue of his eyes, Geralt can see the struggle to keep them open. Sleep is pulling at him.

If he says what he needs to say, maybe he can just blame it on a dream Jaskier had. Deny it as Jaskier will presumably tell everyone about the kind things his Witcher says to him in their quieter moments alone.

Or he’ll just blame it on loose lips and a looser tongue. If Jaskier ever has to lure anything out of him, he’ll wait for this Geralt to appear. He’s much more agreeable than the other one.

Geralt press his lips together. Gods alive, how does Jaskier even do this? A sure tongue that lulls the right kinds of words; through conversation or song. Something does manage to clamber together in Geralt’s mind, but it sticks behind a tight jaw and clenched teeth. It’s almost painful to try and work them open. He wants to share with Jaskier. He really does. But he spent more years than Jaskier has been alive keeping to himself, quiet and alone. Anything he wants to say sticks in his throat and is too stubborn to try and move.

All he can do is wait for these quieter moments. When he does manage to speak, letting the words slip out of his throat, they’re almost lost in a whisper. “I,” he rasps, “I like looking at your eyes. They’re...” Geralt’s brows knit together. “I haven’t seen any that blue before.”

Jaskier watches him; a small smile still lingering on his lips as he struggles to stay awake, holding on to it with his fingertips to hear what else Geralt has to say. He hums, burrowing into his pillow and shuffling closer to his Witcher. “My eyes?” Jaskier whispers. His smile only grows as a half-laugh huffs out of him. “Do you say that to all of your bedmates, Witcher?”

Geralt hums. “Only those I like,” he rumbles in reply. He reaches out, as gently as he can, and brushes his fingers along the length of Jaskier’s neck. The bard’s throat bobs as he swallows, relaxing into the warm and familiar touch. “I’m, I’m not good with words. I just, I just like looking at your eyes. They’re beautiful.”

Jaskier’s smile grows, rounding his cheeks and flushing his skin red. “You’re sweet,” Jaskier lulls, sleep insistently tugging at him and luring him down.

He should let the bard sleep. Their bath seems like hours ago, and once they were bundled back in their own chambers, with the door barely kicked shut behind them, lips met and hands wandered and moans of each other’s names filled the air as Geralt took him to bed. Now, soft and sated, slowly slipping down into sleep, Geralt waits for him to drift off first. He can’t stand taking his eyes off of Jaskier. As long as his bard sleeps, he’ll be safe and nearby.

Jaskier does drift off before him, sleep slowly coming to blanket him and drag him down. Geralt runs a knuckle over the arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. The bard snuffles and burrows further into his pillow, but doesn’t open his eyes. And Geralt misses them; but he’ll see them again. When the sun finally clambers up the nearby peaks and light stretches into the room, trying it’s best to wake them up, the first thing Geralt will see is his bard’s eyes.

Maybe he’ll have his words conjured by then for him. Because he would like to gift them to Jaskier. Jaskier is so kind and devastating with his own words, Geralt wants to match him; to gift words back that will have his little lark understanding how much he means to him.

And maybe the stickiest words of all might be able to claw out of his throat.

 _I love you_.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


End file.
